


Walk Away a Fool Or a King

by Randominity



Series: All These Secret Places [7]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randominity/pseuds/Randominity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is curious about trying something new that could change the way he sees himself, but he doesn't know how to ask or involve Eleanor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk Away a Fool Or a King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [becka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/gifts).



> For [becka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/becka). Happy Holidays, lovely! I really, really hope this fits your prompt well enough and that you enjoy it!
> 
> Thanks so much to [disarm_d](http://archiveofourown.org/users/disarm_d) and [cantgetnoworse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse) for looking this over and helping me make it better, and to everyone whose shoulders I cried on all month about it.

"I'm not one of your boys," Eleanor grunts, her back going a bit stiff as she reaches up and removes Louis' groping hand from her breast. She places it down on her hip and pushes back against him so he knows she isn’t angry. She’s still wet around him, still sighs when she does it.

"I might have noticed," Louis murmurs into her hair where he's bent over her. He moves as soon as she’s let go of his hand again, tucks her hair behind her ear to press a kiss there as he rocks into her again.

"So it fucking _hurts_ when you pinch my nipples like that," Eleanor says.

“Reckon it hurts everyone,” Louis answers. “It’s just a bit of fun. Are you sore?” he slides his hand back up her side, slow, so she can stop him if she wants to. “Can I touch you again?” He knows only enough to be dangerous about PMS, and the way Eleanor can’t bear to be touched some days, but he _loves_ Eleanor’s boobs. He loves the gentle swell of them, the blue streaks of vein that run through the pale triangles her bikini covers when they’re out sunning. He loves the way they fit in his hands, her nipples and how they pucker up when he plays with them, the way they go flat and flush with the rest of the breast with inattention.

He likes playing with them even more than she does, and she indulges him the curious sweeps of his thumbs over them while she rides him, the pinches he can’t resist giving when he fucks her like this that make her hiss and swat his hands away. Never does she take the opportunity to pinch him back; no one ever does, and he’s always wondered why. He likes the reactions he gets, all sorts of reactions; he gets them from the lads and he gets them from her and it’s the one universal thing, isn’t it? Everyone has nipples, and everyone cares what you do with them, but no one seems inclined to do much with his.

Eleanor makes it a thing, sometimes, like she might get it. There’s a small, slender vibe she can hold between her fingers when they have sex. Sometimes it’s for her, and sometimes not; she can see how it makes Louis arch up when she runs it over his nipple, how it makes him dig into her hips with his fingers. She’s endured some of the bites he leaves in those places after using it even when they’re not fucking, even after he’s spent and has all the time in the world to work her up again into a second, third quivering orgasm. She gets it when she bends over him and rubs the ends of her hair over his nipples while they kiss, she gets his tactile needs and the way it works him up a notch, makes him that much more receptive.

It’s normal, isn’t it, the little flickers of pain that get all tied up with pleasure; the slow throb of a love bite, the sting of bruises from fingertips. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t pinch the people he loved, some leftover practice in between his mum’s “ _I love you so much I could squeeze you ‘til you pop!”_ and a selfish, impulsive need to keep some part of them with him a moment longer. Eleanor only ever uses forms of pain to punish him, and she’s not wrong; he doesn’t like the way she twists the skin on his inner thighs or his earlobes, or the welts she leaves from spanking.

He doesn’t know how to explain what makes it different when he does it to her; why it isn’t clear to Eleanor he doesn’t mean it the same way. He doesn’t know why she never tries it back with him.

“I don’t like it when you pinch me at all,” Eleanor says. “It really hurts,” she repeats, and then she leans down and forward and slides off his cock completely. Louis stumbles forward in a habitual push before he catches himself, bracing his weight on his hands on the bed.

“Right, I’ve earned that,” he says, by way of apology, his balls tight and aching like they anticipate he won’t be getting any release now. But Eleanor just turns over onto her back between his arms and reaches up for him. Instead of pulling him down by the arms or shoulders, she grips his nipples between thumb and forefinger and tugs hard, dropping him down heavily over her. Her intention to punish him is as clear as day, and Louis gasps, unable to pull back against his own weight. He twists to the side to lessen the stretch from one nipple, and grabs at her hand to stop it tweaking on the other.

Eleanor gives him a knowing look, not quite a smile, tightening her thighs around him. “Yeah,” she says pointedly. “How do you like _that_?”

Louis doesn’t know what to say, rubbing the heel of his palm over the sore spot like he can press in the memory of what it felt like to be pinched, the exact tenor of the pain she’s inflicted. Eleanor is so good at figuring out when what he needs is _more_ , that he doesn’t know how to tell her that what he wants— what he thinks he might want— is _different_.

He doesn’t say _I did. I did like that._ Instead he offers, “you could pinch them sometimes,” a bit breathless, and she nods.

“I will,” Eleanor says with a glint in her eye, but he doesn’t think they’re talking about the same thing.

**

There’s a lot of porn about nipples, and pain, and other things he and Eleanor do, and Louis is no stranger to any of it. It’s so theatrical sometimes that it’s hard to know what’s even safe, or real, or how those things are supposed to feel at all. How is Louis supposed to know if he’d like it if Eleanor tied him up and clamped his nipples? Would he thank her? Sometimes he thinks he might - the bloke in one film liked it so much he came all over himself - but that doesn’t mean _Louis_ will.

He knows how to touch himself to get off, and it’s no challenge to do things that feel good, to do more of it, longer. Even the things Eleanor has had him try are like that, only requiring a little patience, for him to give it time to feel good. When it’s his own fingers, though, pinching hard at his nipple in the shower, it’s far too easy to stop, simply let go. Why shouldn’t he, with one sure hand round his cock guaranteeing he’ll come in under a minute?

He tries, giving himself little tweaks and twists that make him wince instead of holding on steady and tight the way he thinks a clamp would. He gets a lot of mixed signals from that, slivers of pain and the tingle of release, that keep him on edge, until he can’t do it anymore. He can’t make himself. The sites call it _torture_. Is that what he really wants? He thinks about the lad in one of the films he watched who started to sweat once the clamps were on him, so much so that they wouldn’t stay on his nipples, kept sliding off and having to be reapplied while he groaned and struggled, hands cuffed behind his back.

Louis comes, shaking, into his fist. He should have known he couldn’t do this on his own.

“Did you come this morning?” Eleanor asks him over her tea, when he sits down heavily at the breakfast table in just his trackies, his fringe still damp over his forehead.

“Same as every morning,” Louis grins at her, raising his eyebrows as he reaches for a piece of toast to cover with sausage.

“Must have been a good one,” Eleanor says. “Your face is still red.”

**

“D’you know,” Louis eventually says around his toothbrush that night, meeting Eleanor’s eyes in the mirror before refocusing on himself, “there’s all sorts of, like, nipple things out there? Like, toys and stuff.” In the mirror he can see Eleanor turn her head to look at the side of his face.

“Nipple things?” she says, reaching blindly for the lotion to pump a dollop into her hand.

“Yeah.” He spits as casually as he can, then sticks the brush back in his mouth. “Pumps and suctions and stuff,” he says wetly. “And clamps,” he adds. He hopes he didn’t already say _clamps_ before. It’s the part he’s been stuck on all day. “Things.”

Eleanor rubs her hands together, watching him work. “Did you have anything in mind?” she asks.

Louis shakes his head, brushing more vigorously. Where would he even start? They each promised different things, none of it as simple as a pinch between fingers. He wants to pinch himself now, to be certain. “Just curious in general,” he says, shrugging a shoulder.

She nods. “If you bring up some links, we can look at them together.”

It sounds frustratingly and unsurprisingly like she isn’t going to let him get away with it. He sighs, spits, runs the tap to rinse his mouth. “Els,” he says, “we don’t _need_ them. I was only curious—”

“Curious enough to mention—”

“Well, yeah, because I’m _curious_ ,” Louis says.

”We already have toys, Lou,” Eleanor points out gently. “ _You’re_ the one who said suctions.” She puts a hand, warm and smelling of flowers, on his arm. “ _You_ said clamps.”

“Can we leave it?” he says flatly, but the time for that has long passed and he’s making it worse. He’s half hard already in his pyjama bottoms and he doesn’t even know why, why the thought of chasing pain like that has him excited. It’s a relief to take Eleanor by the shoulders and pull her into his arms. “I like the toys we have,” he says, and ducks in for a kiss, finding her lips already glossed and her breath minty with toothpaste. She lets him lead her back into the bedroom and tumble them together onto the bed; he lets her pin him beneath her with her thighs while she fetches a condom from the bedside table. He doesn’t release her from his grip even as she passes it to him and runs her fingers up his sides, forcing a giggle from him.

They tickle each other out of their clothes— her sleep tee up and his bottoms kicked down to his ankles— and then she sinks down on him where he’s holding the condom in place, riding him fast where they’re poised by the edge of the bed. “Do you want to come tonight, darling?” Eleanor asks him, and he releases his cock to hold her round the waist.

“If you’d like,” he says, playing it cautious instead of demanding it. He almost wishes she’d forbid it tonight, keep him on the brink instead of deep inside his own head. She might do, anyway, because he knows she can tell he’s holding back with her, but he doesn’t know how to get it out. Even if he knew exactly what he was asking for, he wouldn’t know how to say it.

Eleanor leans down over him, her breasts brushing his chest, and she digs her fingers into his hair to grip while they kiss; it tugs pleasantly at his scalp and he bites at her bottom lip when she withdraws at last and braces herself with her hands against his chest. She holds him deep, rocking her pelvis against his in circles to get herself off, and Louis wants to ease her way there, pinch her nipple the way he’d pinch her clit when she’s close, but he doesn’t, his fingers twitching uselessly as he hovers them at her thighs.

Eleanor clenches her hands into fists when she comes, scrabbling her fingers over his chest, and her nails, growing out with a new manicure, drag over his left nipple. The sharp gasp is caught in Louis’ throat as he lurches up and grabs at her hand, but he can’t stop the buck of his hips, jolting her up, the way his knees draw in. She slows to a stop and he knows he’s been caught.

“Come on,” he begs, rocking up into her, trying to get her to move again. “Come on, Els, please.” He pets her thighs, urging her on.

She turns her head slightly to look at him out of the side of her narrowed eyes, letting him silently suffer for a few long seconds. Finally, she says, “this won’t be the last we talk of this.”

Louis takes her hand in his and drags her down for another kiss. “’Course not,” he says, against her lips. How could he ever be that lucky? Sometimes he can’t believe the luck he’s got. He increases the pace now that she’s come, and after being so deep for so long, feeling her ripple around him, a few rapid strokes are all it takes to get him panting, holding off. He breaks their kiss with a whisper. “El. Fuck, Eleanor--” he clutches her close, grinding deep and trying not to, trying not to let himself tip over before she’s had a chance to stop him. Eleanor just nods against his forehead, though, and he sighs through his orgasm, holding on for dear life, pulling her down with him.

**

“I have something for you,” Eleanor says, midway through a _Top Gear_ advert on the telly. She kisses Louis through the hair on top of his head where he’s sat at her feet on the floor, placing her hands on either side of his face to hold him.

He tips his head back in her hands and looks at her upside down, her smile gone all wonky from the backwards perspective. “Yeah, love?” he asks, and if his heart picks up in pace a bit, well, he can hardly help that anymore.

Eleanor releases him and reaches up to take the pins out of her hair before she shakes it loose over him, leaning down to kiss his mouth as her hair dusts his shoulders and chest. She shows him the pins as she pulls back, looping her arms around his neck. Louis tucks in his chin to look at them, his breath catching when he sees them. He knows his hair’s grown a fair bit longer in the past few months, but he’s not thought it near Harry territory, in need of any accessory other than a beanie to keep it out of his face. Lou sometimes clips it back when it’s wet and she’s doing his makeup, but… “Are you planning to dress me up pretty, Els?” he asks, and wills his voice light to head off the waver in it, grinning up at her. He bats his eyelashes for effect, feels where they barely brush her thumbs.

She pauses, holds a finger up, taps it to his carotid artery as though she senses his quickened pulse. “The thought’s crossed my mind,” she says. “Maybe another time. No, these,” and she straightens her arms out, hooks her chin over his shoulder. “These go here.” She poises the ends of the pins above his nipples, hovering an inch away from the fabric of his shirt, and his skin.

Louis goes very still. It’s everything he’s wanted to try, made less intimidating than the elaborate clamps he’s scrolled through endless pictures of. Eleanor’s seen through to what he was asking, after all, has raised the challenge. He can’t stop himself holding his breath, though; if he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, the pins can’t touch him. “Yeah?” he says, careful. “This is supposed to make it feel good, right?” He tries to imagine what that might be like; a thousand tiny numbing needles maybe, or a searing cold heat. He slowly pushes her fingers away from his right nipple, digging into it with his own fingers, curling them into half a fist.

“I reckon it’ll hurt a bit, actually,” Eleanor admits, then pulls her arms in and gets up off the sofa. She extends a hand to help him up. “But yeah, that’s the idea.”

“Well, I’m not afraid of a little pain, am I?” Louis grins. He’s a little afraid of a lot of pain, is the thing, but only because everything to do with his nipples is so _intense_. He’s half afraid it will hurt incredibly horribly, and he’ll have to cry Red. He’s past the point of disappointing Eleanor with it, because all she ever asks of him is his honesty if he wants to stop. He just hates the thought of being wrong about what he might like in his own body.

Eleanor kisses him then, her arms around his neck and his hands at her waist, fingers slipping under the hem of her jumper, and Louis tries to fall into it. He tries to let Eleanor take him with her with the slide of her tongue between his lips and the way her fingers thread through the hairs at the back of his neck. She twists and rolls the strands into points that poke at his skin as he works his lips over her jawline up to her ear, but releases them with a sigh when he tips her head back to get a good lick at the side of her neck. He nips and sucks and bites a brilliant spot into the skin, and he goes in again to make it larger when at last she pulls away, tugging him by the hand across the room and up the stairs.

Louis stops them at the door to their bedroom to crowd her into the wall there, bracing himself with one hand while they kiss again. It’s a show of gratitude as well as a betrayal of his own excitement that has him fit his hips snugly against hers so she can feel the hard line of his cock through his jeans, but if he’s honest it’s also an attempt to nab himself another quiet moment. It’s the last time he thinks he’s going to feel like his feet are on the ground for some time.

They snog for a long time on the bed, Eleanor taking off her top before pulling Louis down over her, letting him play with her boobs for a while, letting him put his mouth on them. She sighs and tilts her head back and she’s gorgeous, spread out beneath him, lovely breasts pushed together in his hands. He wants to bite her nipples something fierce, to have her bite him back. He doesn’t understand how he can want that so badly, but Eleanor is giving him just the opposite treatment, staying clear of his nipples even as she helps him strip out of his t-shirt. Her pronounced avoidance makes him even more aware of them, the air over them, the warmth of her body when it’s close and the way her hair tickles them into tiny peaks.

He’s practically vibrating with anticipation by the time they split open his flies together, fingers tangling over the zip as he kneels up to tug his jeans and pants down past his arse. Eleanor reaches out to run her fingers up the length of his hard cock, fingertips skipping over the head, and then she kisses her fingers and presses them to his own lips. She urges him onto his back, then says, “take these off, and then stay here,” and Louis lets his head drop back on the bed while she climbs off and darts quickly into the toilet. He wriggles and works his jeans and pants down, then kicks them off, sighing, both happy and anxious.

She returns wearing Mr. Winkles, with a bottle in her hand and a few cotton swabs between her fingers. She lies back down next to him and bows her head over his nipples again. “I thought if I got you hard, they’d stay hard, too,” she comments, at his nipples that have gone as flat as a five-pence piece.

“It doesn’t take much to get them back up again,” Louis laughs, then again when Eleanor blows over one, making it perk up and pebble.

“It doesn’t at all,” she agrees, and then she braces her hand around his pec. “I’m going to clean them with alcohol,” she explains, “so the pins don’t slip and hurt you more than they should.”

“Cheers,” Louis says, nodding, as he watches her work. The rubbing alcohol is cold and the tingle when it evaporates makes his chest break out in goosebumps twice over, but the smooth swipes of the cotton swab are enough to make his breath hitch, keep his dick hard against his stomach. Eleanor’s careful of that as well, kneeling high over him while she works, spine curved to keep her arse in the air.

“There we are,” Eleanor says, “all clean and dry,” and tweaks his nipple quickly between her fingers. Louis hisses and catches her elbow with his hand before he can stop himself, but as quickly as she released him, Eleanor slips a hair pin over the areola to pinch his nipple in between the crimped edges.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Louis breathes, his throat tight. The edges of the pin are sharp where she slid it over him, but the sensation of nearly being cut with it quickly intensifies into a surface burn. Eleanor does the other nipple before he’s had a chance to recover, quickly and efficiently squeezing him in. “Oh, god,” he says, taking shallow breaths.

“Does it hurt?”

He nods. “Yeah, it hurts, it hurts,” he mutters. He looks down at his nipples where they’re dwarfed within the pins. They’re barely visible, their level flush with the surface of the pins and kept hard by the compression alone. “There’s not much to them, is there?” he wonders.

“They’re awfully small,” Eleanor says, watching him watching them. “But they make you feel an awful lot, don’t they?”

“It’s—” Louis tries to think. “Feels— heavy.”

“That’s it,” Eleanor coaxes him, stroking softly up his side. “You think you can turn over for me?” she says, and Louis nods, brows furrowed, trying to make sense of the pain and fullness. His nipples feel larger, meatier, with the weight of the pins on them, even though they’re insubstantial slivers of plastic. He can feel the blood trapped in them, so full they could burst, the shiver that accompanies them hardening but never letting up, never releasing. On his hands and knees it’s even worse, dragging down until he rolls his shoulders and leans down on his elbows. “Mother _fuck_ ,” he says, still unable to take a deep breath, wary of the stretch in his chest, of the ache. His cock is weighty, too, going down to only half-hard even as he feels Eleanor lean over behind him to trail slicked fingers down the crack of his arse.

“Take care not to jostle them,” she warns, and a moment later he’s caught the edge of one pin in the folds of the duvet he’s rucked up beneath his body, back arching away from it.

“Ah!” Louis cries. “Fuck, _fuck_ —” and he can feel the pinch travel straight through him in a path that slides down to his groin, pools in his cock. He tightens around Eleanor’s fingers as she slowly works him open, and she gently stills him.

“Too much?” she asks, and that’s not something she would normally ask, not if Louis was swearing or crying or begging or ever, really. He can sense her caution, knows that this isn’t as easy for her as the other things they’ve tried, and it’s not scary at all; it’s _relieving._ His heart is filled to the brim with love that Eleanor trusts him to keep pace with her on this because for once it’s as new and strange to her as it is to him.

He shakes his head, fully hard again, taut and aching from chest to balls. “No,” he pants, voice low. “Babe, come _on_.” He pushes back on her, frantic for stimulation, for distraction.

She stops him moving again with a steadying hand on his hip. “If you’re just eager, Lou, I’m sorry, but that won’t cut it.” She reaches round with the same hand to give his cock a firm stroke, swiping her thumb over the tip, and he sways forward into it. “Just from the hair pins,” she comments, wiping her fingers together in front of him, showing him the slick from his pre-come.

“I’ve been _like_ this, though,” Louis whines. “It’s enough, I’m ready.”

Eleanor withdraws her fingers and lines herself up, cool blunt pressure against his hole to contrast the hot searing ache of the pins. “Maybe I just didn’t want you to come for a while, yeah?” she says, and Louis can only grunt in response as she pushes in.

She pegs him slowly, mindful of the way he’s propping himself up on his elbows to keep his nipples and the pins free of the sheets. Louis is loud about it, unable to keep the moans from spilling out with every thrust from the sensations hitting him all at once. Fully half of it is from the pain - he can just barely feel a sympathetic headache start to bloom behind his eyes - but he also feels like he could come, _should_ come, but the mixed signals are holding him back.

Eleanor doesn’t touch his cock at all while she fucks him, instead stroking soothing hands down the line of his back and down over his arse on every withdrawal, until she leans down over him and with blind but very careful, seeking fingers, finds the ends of the pins and tugs on them firmly.

“No,” Louis moans in protest, “oh, god _damn_ it,” his spine sparking with the sharpness of it; but he doesn’t stop her, and doesn’t mean to, and when Eleanor tugs again he just hangs his head and shudders, shoulders trembling with the effort of keeping him up. He lowers himself as much as he dares to push his forehead into the pillow and finds it cool against his heated skin where he’s started to sweat. He wonders if the pins will slip off like they did in the film he watched, remembers how Eleanor had swabbed them dry before to keep just that from happening. His dick is bobbing with every thrust, Eleanor pushing him farther into the pillow from that angle, not letting up for a moment; she flicks the edges of the pins sideways, spinning them on his nipples when she grows tired of tugging them, and tears spring to his eyes as he lets out a choked sob.

“Too much?” she asks him again. “You have to tell me, Lou.”

“No,” Louis sobs, digging his fingers into the duvet. He’s starting to feel light-headed, riding the razor’s edge of slipping away and needing Eleanor to bring him back. “I need to come,” he murmurs. “Please, _please_ , I need you to touch me.”

“Here you are, darling,” Eleanor tells him, and flicks the pins off of both nipples at once from the flared ends, sending them skittering onto the sheets, lost in the folds of the bedclothes immediately.

“Owww,” Louis shouts brokenly, hoarse, like letting out a cathartic laugh of disbelief. He tips his head back as he arches and then goes rigid, squeezing his eyes shut around tears of pain, his nipples throbbing and aching in time with the pulse in his cock as the blood flow is allowed to leave them again. He comes like that, suddenly and an instant later, grimacing as he shakes through it.

“Lou,” Eleanor coos at him, coaxing him over onto his back, somehow having got untangled from him and pulled out without him even realising. She smooths over one sore, tortured nipple with the soft, soft back of her hand.

“I came from that,” he slurs, distantly shocked as he stares up at her, taking great heaving breaths now that he’s unrestricted. There are streaks of come in a mess on his lower abdomen, some of it having dribbled down into his pubes.

“Yeah,” Eleanor nods, "you did.” Her brown eyes are wide like she can’t quite believe it, either. “You were so good. So very good.”

He didn’t help her finish, doesn’t think he could now, either, as he lifts one hand jerkily to her hip to stroke over it with his thumb. His hands are still trembling, his scalp tingling with the intensity of his orgasm. But Eleanor looks delighted, and flushed, and her eyes keep drifting down to his nipples where she’s very gently rubbing some sort of balm into the skin. Louis feels like he’s vibrating, still oversensitive, but the tendrils of pain are fading.

“Thank you,” Louis says, then turns his face into the hand Eleanor lifts to cup his cheek before he closes his eyes and drifts.

**

“Was there anything else you’re curious about?” Eleanor asks him, sat with her legs folded across from him over the duvet. With her hair braided and newly dressed in her Coca-Cola pyjamas she’s a soft contrast to the stilettoed women on the website she’s scrolling through as Louis looks over her shoulder. “You can tell me, you silly boy, that’s how we work.”

“I know that,” Louis tells her. “I _know_ , I just didn’t— I don’t understand.” He shrugs, unable to stop his hands fluttering until he crosses his arms and shoves them under his armpits. “What does it _mean_? Does it mean I _like_ pain? I didn’t expect that. I didn’t know what to expect.” Of all the times Eleanor has caused him pain, it’s never been like this; not the way the heavy, tugging ache of the pins on his nipples went straight to his cock, or how hard he got off at the way they seemed to throb in sync, bound up all together inside him.

“I don’t think it has to mean anything more than you want it to, sweetheart,” she tells him. “It doesn’t have to be the pain. It could be all sorts of sensitivity.” She reaches out and touches one tender nipple gently with her fingertip through his shirt, and he winces, so she pulls it away. He’s glad for the couple of days he still has left of the band’s break, to recover from all of this. “You like it with vibrators, yeah?” Eleanor goes on. “We could try other things, like cold, or heat. Something sharp that can get you going.”

“I didn’t know if I’d like it,” Louis tries again to explain. “I thought I might, but I didn’t know. What if I didn’t?”

Eleanor frowns at him with a bit of a concerned pout to her mouth. “I think you might’ve got used to everything being two hundred percent with us, Louis,” she says. “It doesn’t always have to be. There can be things we try that we don’t like.” She shrugs and hugs herself, prompting Louis to sidle closer to wrap his own arms around her so they can both feel warmer. “There can be things that are just a bit nice,” she adds, leaning back against him.

“Nice is lovely,” Louis agrees, sticking his nose in her hair. She smells like his cologne, and her herbal shampoo.

“But you do like it,” Eleanor says.

“I really, _really_ like it,” he admits.

“We could get you one of these proper nipple clamps,” Eleanor says, gesturing to what she’s brought up on her laptop. “They have little hoops you can hang weights from. Like, as a challenge, if you needed more.”

“Jesus Christ,” says Louis.

“Or, we could find those hair pins again and do up your hair pretty, like you said,” she suggests. “It’s long enough in the back for a ponytail, I reckon.”

“Anything but pink,” Louis says at once. His dick is so confused. He’s been in pain and turned on and now it wants to have another go again. “My sisters do me up in pink all the time if I let them.”

“No pink,” Eleanor agrees. She sets aside her laptop and turns to climb into his lap. “Can it be my turn now?” she asks, lips barely touching his. The wisps of her braid tickle the side of his face as she leans in. “You’ve already had a go.”

Louis nods. “Yeah,” he says, and eases his hand down the front of her pyjama bottoms to curl his fingers into her. “Let me take care of you.”

  
  


end.

  
  
  



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